


Calling for Delivery

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [14]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Borderline edging, Dirty Talk, Domestic, Love, Phone Sex, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 06:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20719826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: “Good.” There’s a hitch in Crowley’s voice. “Want to try something new?”Aziraphale frowns as he carries the telephone back over to the couch, setting it on the small table, beside his latest unpacked books. “New?”“Yeah. Bit… different.”Curiouser and curiouser. “I suppose we could try?”Crowley gives one of those soft, nervous, giddy laughs. Ahh. That kind of thing. “All right…” His voice changes pitch and tone. “What are you wearing?”Aziraphale glances down, bemused. “The same thing I was wearing when you left this morning, darling.”“Ugh…” Crowley groans impatiently. “No, no, no, angel. It’s…” He huffs again. “Okay, let me put it another way. Let’s say you want to get me home because you’re…. well… up for it. What would you say to get me interested?”





	Calling for Delivery

Spring cleaning is such a lovely concept: a little bit of personal renewal as the fresh new year begins.

It’s why Aziraphale is puttering around in his library, taking books out of the shipping crates to _finally_ unpack the rest of them. Now that he doesn’t have to worry about customers coming into his personal library, there’s no need to keep them in a state to drive off unwanted touching.

There’s a fresh breeze whispering in through the open windows, bringing the scent of freshly cut grass and the faintest breath of sea air.

He hums happily, as he checks each book and – of course – pauses when he stumbles on an old favourite. There’s a couch in the library for a reason. Said couch is also the main reason that many of the books have not yet reached their shelves, but that is the joy of a private library.

Aziraphale is still happily sitting there, quite engrossed in a rather charming volume of Milton when the ring of a phone nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

He can’t remember putting one in the library and he certainly can’t see anywhere for it to connect, but it’s there, tucked away behind several boxes, bearing a striking resemblance to his telephone from the bookshop.

Cautiously, he lifts the receiver. “Hello?”

“Angel,” Crowley purrs down the line. “You busy?”

Aziraphale purses his lips, rolling his eyes. “You’ve interrupted me tidying my library.”

“Reading, you mean?” He can hear the grin on the demon’s cheeky face. “Go on. Admit it. You were.”

“Only a _little_,” he protests indignantly.

“Mm-hm.” Crowley chuckles. “So, not too busy?”

Aziraphale huffs on principle. “Well, I suppose not, no.”

“Good.” There’s a hitch in Crowley’s voice. “Want to try something new?”

Aziraphale frowns as he carries the telephone back over to the couch, setting it on the small table, beside his latest unpacked books. “New?”

“Yeah. Bit… different.”

Curiouser and curiouser. “I suppose we could try?”

Crowley gives one of those soft, nervous, giddy laughs. Ahh. That kind of thing. “All right…” His voice changes pitch and tone. “What are you wearing?”

Aziraphale glances down, bemused. “The same thing I was wearing when you left this morning, darling.”

“Ugh…” Crowley groans impatiently. “No, no, no, angel. It’s…” He huffs again. “Okay, let me put it another way. Let’s say you want to get me home because you’re…. well… up for it. What would you say to get me interested?”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch and though he can see exactly where Crowley is leading, he can’t help himself. “I would ask you if you would like to make love to me and suggest we meet in the bedroom forthwith.” He has to fight down a smile. “It works every time.”

It’s quite delightful when the demon sputters in indignant, flustered outrage.

“Not like that!”

“Oh?” Aziraphale sits down on the couch, a small smile playing about his lips. “Then demonstrate for me, my love. What kind of thing would you like me to say?”

Crowley groans. “Never mind.”

“Giving up so easily?” Aziraphale imbues his voice with as much of a pout as possible. “But that’s no fun at _all_.”

Crowley gives a small, rueful chuckle. “You’re a menace, angel.”

“Mm, I am rather.” Aziraphale’s cheeks warm as he takes a breath and adds, “Very naughty, in fact.” He can tell from the catch in Crowley’s breath that he has his demon’s attention. “You ought to see the things I get up to when you’re not around.”

“Oh yeah?” The heat in Crowley’s voice sends a frisson of pleasure down Aziraphale’s spine. His voice sinks to a sultry breath, “Tell me, angel. Tell me _exactly_ what you do.”

Oh. Er.

Aziraphale nibbles on is fingernail, then pauses, considering it. A slow smile spreads across his lips and sinks back on the couch. “You know I have very nimble fingers, my dear. What do you _imagine_ I do with them?”

Crowley makes a small sound not quite a whimper. “Angel,” he breathes, “d’you touch yourself?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks are unbearably warm. “If I want to.” He rubs his thumb along his fingertips, then whispers, “Do you want me to, Crowley? Do you want me to do that right now?”

This time, it _is_ a whimper. “Fuck, yes.”

Aziraphale tugs his tie loose. “Let me get rid of my tie…”

“Ngk!”

Ah. That’s the sound he likes, the utter wordlessness delicious.

“I miss your hands, you know,” he says softly, twisting the buttons of his shirt undone one by one. “The way you touch my chest. I can never…” He sighs. “It’s never quite right.”

“Imagine it’s my hand, angel,” Crowley urges heatedly. “Open up your shirt and imagine I’m playing with you. Remember how I pinch your nipples? The way you like? Can you do that for me?”

Aziraphale slides a little further down the couch and does so obediently, closing his eyes and imagining Crowley’s cooler, sharper grip. “Oh! Oh, yes… much better…” He rolls his thumb across it, exactly as Crowley does and oh, Lord, that _is_ rather nice.

“Other side too, angel,” Crowley’s voice is little more than a breath. “Don’t want anyone to be neglected.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale squeezes just a little harder. “Ah. Yes… though not… not a patch on your mouth, darling.”

“Well, _obviously_,” Crowley snorts. “You’d hardly need me if your hand could do that.”

Aziraphale laughs as he swings his legs up onto the couch, leaning back against the arm. “You underestimate the value of your company, my love,” he murmurs, stroking his hand over and over on his chest. “Shall we venture lower, darling?”

“Already?” Crowley half-laughs, half-groans. “You’re insatiable.”

“And you make me so,” Aziraphale purrs in response, pressing his heels against the couch and shifting his hips. “Lord, what I wouldn’t give to have you here, now…”

“Soon,” Crowley promises hoarsely, “but now… tell me what you’re doing.”

“But you hate my buttons,” Aziraphale says, pout in his every word. “You always fuss so… trousers… underpants…”

“And you’re undoing them?”

Aziraphale brings his hand to the phone and deliberately snaps his fingers. “No need anymore.”

“Oh, fuck, angel!”

“Mm.” Aziraphale shifts on the couch, the worn fabric rough against his bare skin. “I’m a little impatient.”

“No shit,” Crowley laughs hoarsely. “On the couch?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale sighs. “On my back. The texture is… I imagine it would… chafe deliciously, should we attempt any… activities on it.”

“Gneeee?”

Oh, this is far too easy. So he wants Aziraphale to say the things that would make him get home in a hurry? And get him interested?

“I would quite like that,” Aziraphale murmurs. “We could _fuck_ here.”

“Gnaaaa!”

“Imagine it,” he says, letting his body shift to the softer, more pliable option. “You come upon me, surrounded by my books. Lord knows how hard I am to distract. But you would…” He imagines thin hands pulling him round, pushing him against the shelves. “You’d… be direct, as ever. Have me up against the shelves, wouldn’t you? Kissing the breath and thoughts out of me.”

“Uhhhh… uh-huh…”

“And you know,” Aziraphale’s cheeks are unbearably hot. “I would protest. So much to do, darling, so busy, darling, oh… do that again darling…”

“D-do what?”

“Those lovely bites,” Aziraphale whispers, imagining the sting, the burn on his throat. “On the couch, pinned against the arm… would you do that for me, darling?”

“Yeah… fuck yes…” Crowley’s breathing harder. “And I’d have you half-naked before you could stop me. Get my hands all over you. Squeezing. Pinching. You know how, don’t you, angel? Do it for me. Do it now.”

Aziraphale hissed through his teeth as he obeyed. “Oh, yessss.”

“And you’d _beg_ for my mouth on you, angel. I’d make you beg for it.”

Aziraphale laughs, soft and breathless. “I’ve never begged before.”

“Always a first time,” Crowley’s voice drips with hunger, threat and promise. “I’d make you crawl for me.”

“Darling,” Aziraphale says gently, “I would do that anyway.”

Crowley gives out a sharp, explosive gasp. “Angel!”

“I would,” Aziraphale says, then grins wickedly. “Is that how you would want me? On my hands and knees? Because we can do that if you would like.” He takes a moment to think of it, Crowley plastered over his back, ravishing him. It’s as if his mind stutters and he has to take a breath. “I– I think I would rather… enjoy that…”

The sound Crowley makes is barely even human. “Fk.”

Oh, he would like it too, he really would, wouldn’t he? And the thought of it…

Aziraphale strokes his hand down over his belly, over skin once smooth, now warm and wet. It’s familiar now, and he knows where to stroke, and when to slip his fingers deeper. “I would,” he says, his voice thick with want. “Lord knows, if you came home now, you could likely flip me on my belly and have me spent in minutes.”

“You’re a… a… Christ… I don’t know…”

“I’m… very, very wet,” Aziraphale says softly, blushing furiously.

Crowley is so silent that Aziraphale stills his fingers.

“I–” When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I want you to find your clit.”

“The… nice part?”

Crowley laughs raspily. “Yeah. Your joy button. Your magic spot. Your… you know…” His breath is an explosive gap. “Rub it. Slowly. Between two fingertips. Gentle, though. Don’t want to get you too excited.”

Aziraphale bites on his lower lip, moving his hand to obey. “I still prefer your hands,” he admits, though his hips have taken on a life of their own, rocking against his fingers. “You…” He catches a breath. “You know exactly how to touch me.”

“Yeah… I know…” Crowley takes a shaking breath. “Is it good? Does it feel good?”

“Mm.” The pleasant throb is building, little by little. “Very.”

“Slide your fingers down now,” the demon whispers. “I want you to fuck yourself with them. Not gentle now. Do it as hard as you like.”

Aziraphale takes a breath, then thrusts two fingers deep, using his thumb to knead the throbbing ball of nerves up above. He must have made some kind of sound, for Crowley is panting in his ear, urging him on and Lord, who is he to disobey his beloved? His feet dig into the couch, his hips rocking and he thrusts greedily with his hand, imagining Crowley over him, his belted toy in place, pushing his thighs apart and ruining him completely.

The telephone slips from his hand, clattering on the floor, jerking him from the haze of want. He gropes down, fumbling for it again.

“Cr-Crowley?”

“Bit carried away, angel?” The demon laughs unsteadily. “God, you sound good when you’re enjoying yourself.

Aziraphale sinks back on the couch, drawing his fingers – wet and slick – from his body. “Mm.” He eyes them, then lifts them to his lips, darting his tongue along them. “Mm. Salty.”

There’s a sharp breath on the other end of the line. “Being upstanding?”

Aziraphale sucks on his fingertip, rubbing his thighs together, squeezing them around his throbbing, neglected, empty parts. “Internal,” he murmurs. “Wet. Salty.” He sucks wetly, noisily, on his fingers and grins smugly at the small wanton moan. “Won’t you come and help, darling? It’s rather lacking without you.”

“I’m not– damn it, Aziraphale–”

A little more incentive, then.

Aziraphale rolls, tipping himself off the couch. “Hands and knees, darling,” he murmurs into the receiver. “I’m putting the phone down, but that’s how you’ll find me, if you hurry.” He sighs lazily. “You have five minutes.”

He doesn’t wait for Crowley’s reply – doubtless much profanity – but sets the receiver down on the floor at a safe distance, then arranges himself on his hands and knees. If he knows Crowley, he’ll come and when he does…

He presses his thighs together briefly, the pressure sending a delicious shiver through him. The carpet is so rough under his hands and knees, his toes curling and uncurling with anticipation, and he fixes his eyes on the receiver, daring his lover to have some restraint, to wait, hold back, refuse, not even–

Crowley spills out of the receiver into a crouch on the floor. He freezes there, staring, and Aziraphale allows himself the luxury of a smug little smile. “Welcome home, darling.”

“You’re– you really–” Crowley rips his glasses off, staring hungrily at him. “Oh, _fuck_, angel.”

Aziraphale bares his teeth, unable to help himself. “If you get a move on, yes.”

Crowley stumbles to his feet, clumsy finger snaps dispatching his clothes, as he skirts around Aziraphale. He drops to his knees behind him and runs his hands so reverently over Aziraphale’s backside that he can’t help shivering in pleasure.

“Look at you,” Crowley breathes with such awe that Aziraphale flushes all over again. “Fuck me, you’re incredible.” And then, serpent fast, he lunges down and his mouth catches on that hot, pulsing knot and Aziraphale sees stars. He sags forward on his forearms, gasping, hips jerking against Crowley’s hands and his gasps rise to a keening wail as a long, sinuous tongue plunges deep inside him.

“C-Crowley!”

Crowley doesn’t stop. Aziraphale is a fizzing mess of nerves and want, his feet drumming against the floor, fists clenched in the carpet, as Crowley devours him inside and out. Fingers replace tongue, then tongue darts forward, fluttering, teasing, raising that throbbing pulsing heat back, over and over and over and Aziraphale’s brow is pressing to his fists and he shudders over and over.

“Good angel.” Hot breath on his thighs, as thumb replaces tongue, slow circles rubbing, pressing, drawing out helpless, breathless moan after shuddering moan. “Good angel… look at you… look how well you’re doing…”

“Cr-Crowley, please,” Aziraphale keens breathlessly. Can you, he wonders, can you discorporate from pleasure? Feels like it. Feels like he’s coming apart under Crowley’s hands over and over.

Fingers sink into him again, stroking slow and gentle, and Crowley covers him, draping over his back.

“You’re so good, Aziraphale,” he whispers, rubbing with his thumb as he thrust-thrust-thrusts with his fingers, gently drawing Aziraphale to another peak, leaving him trembling and legs shaking. “I want to fuck you, sweetheart. I _really_ want to fuck you. Do you think you could manage one more?”

One more? One more is… is good. Is good. It’s– Crowley… Crowley will take good care of him.

“Please,” he breathes, words frothing and gasped against his hands. “_Please_.”

Crowley’s hands draw away and he snaps his fingers. Leather and metal and cool rubber slide against Aziraphale’s thrumming skin, making him whimper. Too much. Almost too much.

“I’m here, angel,” Crowley croons softly, nuzzling his shoulder. “I’m here.” His hands are on Aziraphale’s hips and he’s rocking gently, only stroking against him, not in, not yet, gentle, gentle gentle… and it’s making him reel, head spinning and his whole world is hot and need and want and so-so-so close to there again.

“Please,” he begs, pushing back as much as his shaking legs will allow. “Please.”

Crowley’s lips skim his ear, making him jolt. “Told you,” he breathes, his hand cupping Aziraphale’s sex, a barrier between him at the toy, pressing so lightly, unbearably, deliciously, _painfully_ lightly, so much so that Aziraphale rubs desperately against him, pleading in half-caught gasps, seeking some… some release, some contact, some _thing. _“First time for everything.”

Aziraphale’s brow presses to the carpet. Can’t think, can’t form words, can scarcely breathe. Whole body feels aflame, trembling all over and when Crowley takes him by the hips, feels like electric charges shooting through him.

“Good angel,” Crowley breathes, holding him steady and sinking into him.

Aziraphale moans into his hands, the– he–it –all of it –

“Easy,” Crowley breathes, his chest warm against Aziraphale’s back.

Hand slides down, reaching between Aziraphale’s helplessly splayed knees, touching once, like the divine spark. It– it scatters everything and Aziraphale is sobbing, hot and shaking and ragged. Crowley is stroking deeper, and harder and so, so slowly.

“I have you,” Crowley says, tender and kind, holding him, as he burns up, burns up like a phoenix, reborn over and over and over, every touch, every press, every inch of contact bringing him back to the edge and sending him over, until he can do nothing but sprawl there, nothing but a shivering mass of flesh and quivering nerves, nothing but pleasure left.

It’s…

It feels an eternity before his mind reconnects its fragmented parts.

They’re…

He stares around blankly. Oh. Yes. Library. They’re… they’re on the floor in the library. Crowley… against his back, curved around him like a shadow, cradling him. Something… softer below them. Blanket? Tartan? His?

Breathes in, deep and slow, and feels all the places their bodies are still touching. A lot of them. Intimately. Tentatively moves his hips and feels the deep pleasurable ache low inside him. “Oh…”

Crowley lifts his head to kiss Aziraphale’s shoulder. “There you are,” he murmurs. “Was starting to worry.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale tilts his head, sighing softly as Crowley nuzzles his jaw.

Crowley strokes his belly gently, light as a feather. “Too much?”

Probably, Aziraphale thinks. Tries to think. Hard to do it, when everything is… soft and warm and tingling around the edges. “Good,” he decides, exhaling a long, slow contented breath as Crowley presses closer than close, squeezing him tightly. He moves his hand, pat-pats the demon’s arm. “Rare treat, hm?”

“Mm.” Another kiss to his shoulder, sears like an ember. “Yeah,” Crowley whispers, “you’d get nothing done if I did this to you every time.”

He giggles. Real giggle. Not wrong. Still all tingly from head to toe. Bites his lip as Crowley snuggles in against him, fresh sparks flaring between his thighs. “Enough,” he breathes out. “For now.”

“M’not doing anything,” Crowley sounds confused.

“Inside, darling,” he manages, then hisses as Crowley squeaks in alarm and draws out the toy, wonderfully abused and aching flesh throbbing in complaint, making his whole body shudder in the demon’s arms. “_Fuck_.”

“Sorry, angel!” Crowley snaps his fingers, dispatching his toy, and gathers Aziraphale closer again. He cradles him, gentle and chaste. “Bed? D’you want to go to bed?”

He must have nodded, he supposes, when Crowley bundles him up like a babe in arms, slipping one arm beneath his knees, the other about his back, and carries him as if he’s lighter than air. His head falls to rest on Crowley’s shoulder, body limp and boneless in his embrace.

“Look at the state of you,” Crowley whispers when he lays him down on their bed. He strokes Aziraphale’s sweat-damped curls.

Aziraphale smiles vaguely, leaning into his touch. “Mm.”

“I’ll get you some tea, eh?” Crowley sounds both delighted and worried. “Rehydration is important.”

“Just so…”

Perhaps he miracled it, or perhaps he went away and made it, but Aziraphale only cares that he is drawn up – wincing only a little – to sit and warm china touches his lips. The tea is, of course, perfect. Sweet and sharp and utterly soothing.

“Crowley,” he murmurs, his head resting on the demon’s shoulder.

“Yeah?”

He lifts his head enough to look up. “Your phone. Where is it?”

And to his amused delight, Crowley’s eyes go round in horror. “Oh _shit_!” He hastily snaps his fingers and a cracked and battered telephone appears in his hand. It looks like it hit the ground and possibly been run over by several cars.

Aziraphale dissolves into helpless laughter. “I win,” he murmurs.

“Win?” Crowley echoes. “What ‘win’? There’s no ‘win’!”

“Did I,” Aziraphale says, eyes drifting closed with lazy contentment, “or did I not make you get off the telephone?”

“That’s not what we were doing!”

Aziraphale’s chuckle vibrates through his chest. “I wanted you home. And here you are.” He tilts his head to softly kiss the demon’s throat. “I. Win.”

“I– it– that–” Crowley sputters in helpless indignation. “That’s _not_ how phone sex works!”

For us, Aziraphale thinks as he drifts into something that must be sleep, that’s _exactly_ how it works. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this one for a good few days, because while I know about the phone sex, the rest was a bit... vague. And then I stumbled on Gingerhaole's astonishingly gorgeous erotic art of our lads, in their [Polaroid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20531924/chapters/48732806) set and suddenly, everything crystallised :)
> 
> And, if you enjoy my nonsense, you ought to know [I can be found on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/amuseoffyre), where I inevitably babble about these two clowns a LOT.


End file.
